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It Snowed

It Snowed

Too Much Snow

by Louis Jenkins

Unlike the Eskimos we only have one word for snow but we have a

lot of

modifiers for that word. There is too much snow, which, unlike rain,

does not

immediately run off. It falls and stays for months. Someone wished for

this

snow. Someone got a deal, five cents on the dollar, and spent the

entire family

fortune. It’s the simple solution, it covers everything. We are never

satisfied

with the arrangement of the snow so we spend hours moving the snow from

one

place to another. Too much snow. I box it up and send it to family and

friends.

I send a big box to my cousin in California. I send a small box to my

mother.

She writes “Don’t send so much. I’m all alone now. I’ll never be able

to use so

much.” To you I send a single snowflake, beautiful, complex and

delicate;

different from all the others.

P.S. When I drove Noel to work this morning I was looking at the snow on all the trees and said, “This is kind of nice.” Noel felt my forehead to see if I was feeling okay. We’ll see how long it lasts 🙂

Flannel Sheets and Down Comforters

Flannel Sheets and Down Comforters

I love it when the nights get cold enough to justify flannel sheets and down comforters. There’s just something reassuring about having a chill surround you, but remaining untouchable because you are hugged by the impervious warmth of your covers. It does, however, make getting out of bed in the morning even more difficult.

Tonight’s forecast predicts rain/snow showers. While I’m definitely not ready for winter, the weather has brought this poem to mind this morning:

Relearning Winter

Hello Winter, hello flanneled

blanket of clouds, clouds

fueled by more clouds, hello again.

Hello afternoons,

off to the west, that sliver

of sunset, rust-colored

and gone too soon.

And night (I admit to a short memory)

you climb back in with chilly fingers

and clocks, and there is no refusal:

ice cracks the water main, the garden hose

stiffens, the bladed leaves of the rhododendron

shine in the fog of a huge moon.

And rain, street lacquer,

oily puddles and spinning rubber,

mist of angels on the head of a pin,

hello,

and snow, upside-down cake of clouds,

white, freon scent, you build

even as you empty the world of texture-

hello to this new relief,

this new solitude now upon us,

upon which we feed.

-Mark Svenvold